JohnLock

He wonders if John knows what this is doing to him, how he's on an electric sort of high at the moment. He knows it's more than he could've have hoped for, this kiss was more than he deserved. Far more.
And then with John, those feelings that wouldn't cease it was just too....fantastic. Brilliant.
Sherlock shifts them over, moving one hand onto the wall, the other hand like stone around John, and he intensifies, pressing his lips onto John's with an increments of more force. In the back of his brain, there is an acknowledgment to the sound police auto alarm in thr distancr, but he doesn't really hear it, no, Sherlock's too busy at the moment. And there is no other way he would have it.

(I thoroughly agree, this whole thing is Johnlock masterpiece. You, young lady, are so AWESOMELY BRILLIANTLY FANTASTIC! I just want you to know that :D)
 
((Thank you, my dear! So are you! Praise the Omegle gods for bringing us together. XD)

For once, he can thoroughly agree with Sherlock's sentiment that breathing is boring. Despite the fact that his head was swimming - though, to be fair, that could be Sherlock's fault - right now, stopping to breathe seems like the biggest waste of time he could ever do, because Sherlock is kissing him and John, frankly, never wants to be separated from him again.

It hits him like a brick wall, then - the fact that he doesn't have to, that even if he did have to stop kissing him for some godforsaken reason he could simply pick it up again later, that he could lean over and kiss Sherlock any damn time he wanted to. The fact that Sherlock is his, undeniably his; the future he once dreamed about and wrote off as impossible was actually happening, and it's all of a sudden too much, too much happiness, too much everything, and he breaks away gasping for air, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's and clinging to his neck like if he let go he would be set adrift.

"I can't believe how lucky I am," he whispers, closing his eyes and tightening his grip. "I never thought..." He trails off, a happy, breathless laugh bubbling up from his throat.
 
He let out a slight chuckle, "Nor I. But I can't say I'm unhappy with these turn of events..."
Sherlock presses his lips to John's forehead, then kisses him once more, not wanting this to ever end. Can't he just hold him in this place forever?
The way he clings to John is as if he let's go, he'll wake up. This won't be real, this kiss or John's words, and so he can't let go, this is the happiest he's ever truly been.
And then suddenly, it breaks.
There's a knocking on the door, startling Sherlock out of the two's own little world that causes a shock back into reality. He glances from the door back to John, "Let's pretend we're not home, shall we?"
He doesn't want anyone to invade in this space, he doesn't want to look into anyone's eyes but John's, those eyes that just revel in emotion at a glance. Sherlock shifts himself so he's holding his army doctor in a tight embrace now, feeling the slight itch of wool from John's jumper as his arms wrap around..

 
As Sherlock pulls John in, he can't help but feel surprised at Sherlock's suggestion. Sherlock Holmes? Not wanting to look into a case? Not even to see if it was at least interesting? Even in John's more treasured fantasies, he hadn't expected, hadn't even hoped that Sherlock would choose him over cases, would offer to set aside cases just to be with him. He had thought that he would just have to be patient, categorized with the things Sherlock indulged in between cases only. Food, sleep, John. He understood that. But it doesn't seem to be the case.

For the first time it occurs to John that Sherlock cares more than he thought; that Sherlock might put him before the experiments or the cases or the puzzles; that he might be Sherlock's first priority, even as Sherlock was John's. The thought leaves him a little misty-eyed. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and tucks his head under Sherlock's chin, resting it on Sherlock's shoulder. A perfect fit. It was almost to be expected. "What if it's important?" he asks quietly, tightening his hold on Sherlock's waist to indicate that the question did not indicate that he wanted Sherlock to go anywhere. Ever again.

((Of course he does. EVERYONE approves of this RP. Even the NON-SHIPPERS would probably approve of this RP, it's that goddamn beautiful.))
 
He stays still in that moment, observing the way John acted, how he held him as soon as the question was off those very kissable lips..
John doesn't want me to go. But why does he ask then? And then that moment of silence, shock perhaps? Yes, yes of course.
"It's probably just some open and shut domestic, Lestrade would be here himse-" And as if the universe wants to test them already, a loud voice shouts something, slightly muffled through the door.
"Sherlock, you there? Listen, normally I wouldn't call on you for this sort of thing..."
He swears under his breath, why the hell did Lestrade have to come now, of all times? Sherlock was happy and content right here, right with John holding him.
But it occurs to him that John isn't always there, he works, and there are painful hours when he is gone. And all those times, all those wonderful times with John occurred during their runs as investigators.
He lets out a heavy sigh, as if he's some six year old who is ready to throw a tantrum.
"You'll come with, right?"
 
He smiles a little into Sherlock's neck at his obvious irritation and closes his eyes, staying close to Sherlock for a moment more. He wants to lock this moment into his memory to keep him sane between now and when he'll get to be this close to Sherlock again, because he knows that every minute, every second that he is with Sherlock but not with Sherlock he will be going out of his mind. Once he has their positions firmly fixed in his head, he leans back and stretches up to give Sherlock one more long, lingering kiss, sealing the moment firmly in his memory. "If you think I'd let you out of my sight now, you really are an idiot," he says, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm not letting you go anywhere without me. Not when I just got you."
 
"That, my dear Watson, " he presses his lips to John's once more, "is what I want."
He slips out of the embrace, but still holds onto John's hand, it's so hard to let go of him, especially now. Why on earth should he have to let go when they leave to go investigate?
But then he remembers Moriarty, remembers how he strapped John up tens of explosives, how much he puts his army doctor in the line of fire. Like with the Black lotus and every other enemy Sherlock has made during his time as a consulting detective. He knows John is brave and strong, but Sherlock can't bear that. And the idea of how much worse it could become if they knew what John really meant.
He strides to the door, ignoring that rushing guilt, his grip still around Watson as he opens the door.
"Hello, Lestrade." It comes out bored, annoyed. The detective gives him a funny sort of look, "Do you just walk around your own home in that coat?"

 
John clears his throat, ad-libbing. "He just got in," he lies. "So, what is it this time?" He keeps his expression clear and neutral, trying to act as normal.

Of course, it's about then that Greg notices their hands clasped together and blinks, giving John a whoah, mate, when'd this happen? look. John smiles awkwardly, not sure what to say, acutely aware of the fact that he and Sherlock had never really discussed where they stood. Expressed it, yes, but they never actually put a name to it, or discussed whether or not they would tell everyone... which was starting to seem like a huge lapse in judgment. He doesn't pull his hand away, though. It's clear to him they have something, and if Sherlock doesn't care if Lestrade knows, neither does he. He is proud to hold Sherlock's hand. His Sherlock.

It occurs to him that he's going to get a lot of questions about his Sherlock next time he goes to the pub...
 
(I can imagine Lestrade's face and I can't stop laughing.)

He has to stop himself from grinning like a fool at John and his awkwardness. Sherlock wonders if it's alright that he finds it adorable, but supposes it doesn't matter. He loves him, that's what matters. And the fact that though it appears John's a bit bashful but doesn't let go of Sherlock, well, he is more than pleased about that little fact..
Sherlock gives a deliberate cough to draw Lestrade's attention back to the reason he came here, "So, what exactly is the problem this time?"
It seems that Greg is still confused, just as Sherlock is to how this man can ever be called "Greg", so he lags a bit in his response.
"Ah, the thing, yeah. You've read about that old woman, Sylvia, drowned in her complex pool?"
At the word pool, he thinks back to Moriarty.
"Yes, of course. I presume that it wasn't just a drowning then?"
"There's been another one. A woman named Haley Jones. It's basically identical."
Sylvia.
Haley.
SH.
Sherlock takes a look back to John, biting his lip. Should he risk it? Someone was contacting him, but if John came there was a chance he could get hurt.
But he knows that his Watson isn't going to let him out of his sight.
"We'll come."
 
((RIGHT? Also, I'm convinced he and the entire Scotland Yard have a secret bet running about when the two of them will get together, so thinking of how Lestrade must be reacting with that in mind is ESPECIALLY hilarious. Also also, you introduced PLOT into our adorable-fest? LET ME LOVE YOU)

John furrows his brows as he listens to Greg (ignoring the questioning looks the man continues to throw his way). He tries to puzzle it out, though he knows he's hopeless at it. That's fine by him, though. He doesn't need to be clever to protect Sherlock. He just needs to know where to shoot.

He glances at Sherlock, at the set of his face, his ice-blue eyes already focused, already making deductions at lightning speed, and knows that Sherlock wants to go. Has to be at least an eight, then. He can't keep him from an eight. So when Sherlock looks to him, a question in his eyes, John squeezes the hand in his slightly and lets his eyes say his words for him: I'll follow wherever you lead me.
 
(Lestrade's probably taking down notes, like the detective he is. Sherlock is holding hands. Watson has a sort of puppy-like face. Did they kiss yet?????)


"Alright, meet me at Lakeside complex, half an hour, alright?" Lestrade says as he walks out.
Sherlock nods, still standing in the same place, still next to his John.
He turns around as if to say something else, but decides better of it and leaves the flat. The silence that falls is only broken when Sherlock closes the door and then looks back at John.
"So Lestrade knows then..." He gives him a questioning look, "Are you alright with that? Because if you're not, I should stop him before the whole of the Yard knows about it."

 
((Bahaha. I bet he's going to go to the Yard and be like "Do you know what I just saw? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I JUST SAW?!"))

John grins at the look of concern on Sherlock's face and shrugs. "Let them know," he declares. "Let them all know; I don't care what they think." He takes a step forward to reclaim Sherlock's hand. "This," he says, raising their joined hands, "is all that really matters to me right now. If we're..." he searches for the right word, but can't find it, so simply settles on, "together, then I want people to know. I want people to see how proud I am... to be yours."

He can't help but feel like that last bit might have been a little much, and tries to compensate for it by covering it up with more words. "What I'm trying to say is, of course I'm alright with that, love," he says in a rush. Then it hits him, what he just let slip, and he blinks. "Oh. Bollox. Sorry about that, I'll-" He clears his throat awkwardly, feeling the tips of his ears go pink and looking away, thoroughly embarrassed. Couldn't he just say one thing right? "I'll try to stop."
 
(And then the scramble to beg Mycroft for surveillance footage begins..)

He's never smiled this much in one day before, but he can't help it, especially with John's bashfulness.
"Don't. Don't apologize either. I...I like it."
He loved it, actually, loved the way John blushed so rapidly, how even his ears turned red, how he always thought that he to correct himself, but that wasn't the case.
Sherlock wished he could replay every word John said, especially what he called him. That, that made his day. He grabs him round again, kissing, because even for those few moments Lestrade was here, he still missed this new feeling.
It's a good thing John's alright with this, I can't keep my hands off him in private, let alone outside.


-I'm going to bed now, but I'll reply in the morning! Gooooood night!
 
((Because you KNOW he has some.))

John blinked in surprise again, but this time at Sherlock's reaction, and before he can even look round Sherlock is on him, kissing him fiercely, and once again breathing becomes a distinct waste of time. Well, he thinks (or at least, the part of his brain that still functions thinks), I need to say that more often, if this will be his reaction every time. And again, he's hit with a wave of emotion just for the knowledge that he can say that whenever he wants, and just to exercise his newfound freedom with Sherlock he reaches his hands up, one to pull Sherlock's neck down, pressing their lips together more firmly, and one to twist in his gorgeous curls. Just the fact that he can do that, after so long dreaming of it, makes him so undeniably happy that takes several minutes, an extreme force of will, and a good wallop of immediate self-hatred to pull his lips ever so briefly off of Sherlock's to gasp, "The- the case, Sherlock, he said half an hour-"

((Night!))
 
Even though John reminds him of this in convenient fact, Sherlock doesn't really stop. Part of him was saying Fuck the case, John and the other, well even the detective in him still was enjoying this far too much for his own good.
"I don't think it matters if we're a bit late, John, the message is already there." he says, using up practically all his breath. It was the intensity, the way that John combed his hand through Sherlock's hair, how much better it was when he could feel his Watson's utter want as he pulled him closer. Even when John pulls away, he can still feel the echo, the pounding in his head, because he knows that this can happen again. That he can just kiss John anytime he likes, and he'll always be there for him.
He breathes for a moment, and then looks back at John, a sort of smile in his eyes, "Shall we call a cab then?"
 
Part of John groans when Sherlock so temptingly suggests that they be late, because he really just does not want to go anywhere but he knows Sherlock and knows that, despite how distracted he may be at the moment, Sherlock does really want to go, and if they're late and Anderson gets to the body first Sherlock will not be a pleasure to be around. But still... he thought, leaning back in to kiss Sherlock again, why did he have to be so damn noble?

When Sherlock finally pulls away, John breathes something that's half a sigh and half relief and nods in response to his query. If Sherlock hadn't pulled away, John wasn't so sure he would have let them go to the crime scene at all, just content to stay here, kissing him senseless. Then what Sherlock said a moment ago hits him and he frowns, puzzled. "Wait, the 'message'?" he asks. "What message?"
 
Sherlock cradles John's head with one hand, pressing his lips onto his jawbone as he has an internal debate.
He doesn't want to worry John, cause any, however slight, frenzy or panic. Sherlock himself is still unsure of the exacts of the situation. Perhaps he could make up some calculated lie or...
Sherlock could tell him, trust him with the manor of his deduction. Why had even pondered lying? Was he always this protective over John?
"Sylvia and Haley. They both died in an apartment complex pool, late at night. And then there is the coincidental case of their initials...Someone is reaching out, someone who knows things. Not Moriarty though, at least not him personally-"
He stops himself to gauge John's reaction, realizing how his embrace has tightened around his doctor.
 
John frowns. "So this is specifically for you, then? Someone's trying to get your attention? Why?"

He's suddenly aware of how tightly Sherlock is holding him and studies him carefully. Is there something wrong? Does Sherlock know something he doesn't? Well, he thinks to himself, Sherlock always knows things I don't. But is there something specific? "You seem worried," he observes aloud, before Sherlock can reply to his previous question. "Is something the matter?" Absently, he moves his hand up to Sherlock's jaw and strokes it lightly, comfortingly with his thumb, not even fully noticing that he's doing it.
 
He exhales, leaning his head into John's hand.
"I don't like not knowing things, it's just so... disconcerting. Whoever it is, they've been following me around for a while. Maybe they're just bored. " He crinkles his nose in a displeased sort of matter, because he is supposed to be the brilliant one, the one who know one can take down. And there someone is, killing women to send him a message while he's left without a clue.
But it's...nice. To have John there, to hold him when thoughts are racing past his head, when he's stuck. It has to do with the faith he puts in him, Sherlock thinks, how he always believes in the detective.
John Watson believes in Sherlock Holmes, even when no one else does.
(I just couldn't resist and now I'm having RF feelings.. FEELINGS)